Gordon hurriedly finished the ritual, repeating the words and phrases from the book as best he could. He threw another sprinkling of the herbs and bone over the five corners of the pentagram, closing the ritual, and by the time he was finished he was feeling like a fool for letting it all get to him. And besides…what the hell was he doing? Did he really believe in the shit Count Gaines believed in? Did he really think this ritual was going to make the ground cursed? That if he buried something dead here the curse would bring it back to life?
Now that the ritual was over it was time to find out.
Gordon knelt down and dug a hole with his hands, cursing himself for not bringing a small shovel along. He dug into the moist soil, heaving clumps of dirt in a pile on his left side, and when he’d gone down a foot or so he picked up the dead rabbit and placed him inside. He shoved the dirt back over it with his hands, tamping it down flat. Then he stood up, blew out the candles, tossed everything in the burlap bag, then kicked at the salt-drawn pentagram, scattering it. As he worked he listened to the crickets, pretty sure now that he’d let his imagination get the best of him. The rhythm of their chirping was normal; it hadn’t changed at all. He’d just imagined the whole episode.
When he was finished he hurried through the woods to his car, forcing himself to take it slow and not trip over any vines or bushes.
Once in his car he threw the burlap bag on the front passenger seat, started the car, and drove away.
Naomi Gaines watched her son as they ate supper, wondering what was going on in his world.
The past few days had seen a remarkable change in Tim’s demeanor. No longer sulking, no longer shy and reserved, Tim seemed happy and talkative now. Ever since that day five years ago when Scott Bradfield and those other boys had done that horrible thing to him, Tim had been through hell. It didn’t help that so many people in the community, with the exception of school administrators and the local police, weren’t very supportive. Naomi had warned Jeff early on that if they moved back to her hometown they had to be prepared for the narrow-minded attitudes of the local population. Jeff hadn’t taken her seriously enough, though. His eyes were opened not just by what happened to their son, but when Tim was in seventh and eighth grade at Spring Valley Middle School.
“How’re things going, son?” Naomi asked casually.
“Great,” Tim said. He’d already wolfed down his steak. Jeff was wiping his mouth with a napkin, listening as Tim related how his day went. “George and I hung out here after school.”
“He seems like a neat guy,” Naomi said. She and Jeff had met George and Al when they came by the other Saturday to pick Tim up to go to the movies. While cautiously optimistic, they’d come away feeling good about meeting both boys. What little she knew about George, she figured he was too new to the area to be exposed to Tim’s history and the tainted reputation he had with the student body of Spring Valley High. Still, Tim wasn’t a total outcast at school. There was that computer whiz he hung out with and that girl, some art student. Chelsea. They were kids like Tim; kids who had been cast out of all the social cliques, who were forced to band together lest they be picked on and harassed by the social elite of the student body.
“Yeah, George is cool,” Tim continued. “He and Al are into the same books and movies as I am. It’s really neat to finally meet guys who aren’t like, all wigged out over science fiction and horror movies, you know?”
Naomi smiled. “I know, honey. Trust me, I kinda went through something similar when I was your age.”
“Yeah, you told me.” Tim was looking at her and Jeff. “And Matt and Chelsea are cool too. I like them, but they aren’t into the same kind of books and movies as I am nearly as much as George and Al.” He turned to Jeff. “So, Dad, how different was it to go to a big city school?”
Jeff shrugged. He’d grown up in Baltimore and living in Spring Valley was his first experience living in the country, in a small town. “Hard to say,” he said. “It’s been over twenty years since I’ve been in high school and we had our share of cliques back then, too.” He traded a glance with Naomi. “But even I can tell things are different here. I work right off Main Street, you know, and most of the people I work with live in town. I’m kinda like you in a way, Tim, only in a corporate environment. The people I work with all share the same background and interests and I…well, I don’t. You’ve probably heard me tell you and your mom that I’m the only person at my office that reads during their lunch break, right?”
Tim nodded, chuckling. Naomi couldn’t help but shake her head. Jeff had mentioned this before. While Jeff wasn’t an unabashed horror fan like their son, he read the occasional Stephen King, sometimes Peter Straub. One day Jeff had tried a Richard Laymon novel at Tim’s urging. Jeff had liked it, but commented on the remarks his coworkers had for his choice of reading material. Only a sick mind would find this kind of stuff entertaining, one woman told him that day after getting a glimpse of the cover of the book while in the company break room. Jeff had commented on the incident that evening over dinner. Screw ‘em if they don’t like it, he’d said.
“I think it’s no secret that my closest friends, aside from you and your mom, are the ones I made in high school and college. I have a feeling George and Al are going to be very good friends for you, Tim. You share the same interests and, from the way it sounds, they respect you. I’m certain they’ve had to have heard some of the nasty rumors about you from other kids.”
Tim rolled his eyes. “Well, Al said that Jennifer Walbert told him not to hang around with me because I sold my soul to the devil and belonged to a coven.”
At the mention of this, Naomi retorted in anger. “That little bitch has been a thorn in your side since seventh grade. When the hell is she going to grow up?”
Tim grinned. “Al told her he thought that was cool. He said he couldn’t wait to join the coven, and she looked at him like he was a freak and walked away. I don’t think that was the reaction she was expecting.”
Jeff chewed his food. “Well, that tells me Al doesn’t give a damn what the other kids say about you, and that’s good.”
“Yeah, when Al told me about it, he was laughing,” Tim said, relating the incident in surprisingly good humor. In days past he would have either been dismissive or depressed about it. “He was like, ‘damn, she’s got to be the dumbest chick I’ve ever met.’”
“Unfortunately, she’s probably going to grow up to assume some position of influence or authority,” Naomi said. She was finished with her meal and leaned back from the table. “And she’s going to torment some other hapless soul.”
“It really is so like The Stepford Wives living here,” Tim said.
“You can say that again,” Jeff muttered.
Naomi couldn’t help but feel a pang of regret when she talked with Tim about his problems or saw his reactions to the vicious teasing he received. She’d hoped the good of living in a small town would outweigh the negative; that hadn’t happened for Tim. She remembered hating Spring Valley High. She liked the town — the architecture, its history, the peaceful setting of the surrounding countryside. But the people? They were all narrow-minded, self-righteous religious zealots. Okay, maybe not all of them, but more than she could count. When Naomi was in high school she’d gone through her own identity crisis stage. Her parents had been strict on appearance, stressing that how you presented yourself through dress, grooming, hair and makeup, formed an impression on other people. Things like your personality, whether you were a pleasant person, easy going, friendly, or kind, did not matter.